


I'll Wish Upon Embers

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dancing, Festivals, First Kiss, First Time, Flower Crowns, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Midsummer, Porn with Feelings, Public Display of Affection, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: “I don’t dance,” Geralt growls when it becomes very clear from Jaskier’s staring, and impatiently curling fingers, that the bard isn’t going to take silence for an answer.“Hm. Of course not. I guess you wouldn’t,” Jaskier agrees like that’s the end of it. That’sneverthe end of it. Even as Jaskier pauses to watch the villagers, or perhaps the smoke drifting from the fire, Geralt waits for the inevitable addendum.“But allow me to raise this one point for your consideration.” There it is, accompanied by Jaskier’s expression scrunching in a way that Geralt is exasperated to realize he finds rather endearing. “Have you evertried?”---Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into sticking around for a village's midsummer festival. He assumes they're staying for Jaskier's benefit, but somewhere between the flower crowns and the bonfire, Geralt realizes it was a gift meant for him all along.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 67
Kudos: 626
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	I'll Wish Upon Embers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bardlygo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardlygo/gifts).



> I've been looking forward to sharing this indulgently fluffy thing for a while, but first, some thank you's!
> 
> Much appreciation to the folks running the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang! I've had a lovely time. <3
> 
> Thank you so much to [bardlygo ](https://twitter.com/bardlygo) for all the brainstorming and for sharing the lovely cross stitch art that goes with this fic! It's been so much fun working with you. :D
> 
> And last, but very definitely not least, [CousinCecily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinCecily), I cannot thank you _enough_ for swooping in to beta this for me. You're an absolute life saver.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. They _invited_ us,” Jaskier prods from where he’s perched at the foot of the bed in their rented room. 

Despite himself, Geralt pauses in the midst of packing away what little he’d brought inside, considering. The invitation seems genuine enough, all considered. People here have been kind, not in a suspicious way so much as a treating him like an actual person way. It happens rarely enough that it’s always a surprise, and Geralt never quite knows what to do with it. This time is no exception. “No.”

“You, my dearest witcher, are just allergic to having a good time.” Jaskier flops dramatically against the worn out quilt, a bright splash of blue and yellow against the gray fabric. 

A smile creeps across Geralt’s lips before he can quite help himself. The best he can do is turn away, hide it behind the fall of his hair so that Jaskier doesn’t see. If Jaskier ever realizes Geralt finds his dramatics just the littlest bit endearing, there will be no end to it. “Only.”

“And really, you heard what the alderman’s wife said. It’d be bad luck for _everyone_ if we leave now. I haven’t heard that particular lore about midsummer, but I imagine they’d know better than-” Jaskier cuts himself off with a soft, almost startled sound, pushing up to rest on his elbows. “Only… what?”

“Witcher,” Geralt clarifies mildly, thoroughly enjoying the way Jaskier sputters about it. 

“How would you know? I could have a… collection, or something. I’m not with you _all_ the time,” Jaskier retorts as if either of them remotely believe Jaskier would be able to keep something like that to himself. Geralt knows he’s being baited, which only makes the uncomfortable twist in his stomach more exasperating. Jaskier isn’t his. Not in this context or any other. 

When Geralt doesn’t respond, Jaskier eventually relents. “Yes. Fine. I confess. I’m far too busy following you to every corner of the continent to keep up with another anyway.” 

Distantly, Geralt can hear the beginnings of music where people are beginning to gather, upbeat but otherwise directionless. For all his squawking at Geralt, Jaskier taps his foot to the beat. It’s then that Geralt realizes maybe this actually matters. 

Because the thing is, as offhanded as Jaskier’s commentary is, it’s true. He does follow Geralt, and he doesn’t ever really ask for anything in return. Well, he does, loudly, about food or shelter or other random things that matter to everyone, but never anything particular to Jaskier himself. Except for this time he is, and it’s not such an outlandish request, is it? Free food and a roof over their heads for one more night isn’t a hardship really. 

Geralt isn’t about to concede, at least not in so many words, but he does set the bag back on the floor with a noncommittal grunt. He carefully pretends not to notice the broad smile Jaskier gifts him with, or the way said smile makes something warm bloom behind his breastbone. 

***

The party isn’t entirely unpleasant, Geralt will allow. Someone is playing pipes of some sort. He’s sure Jaskier knows what it’s called, but to the witcher, it’s just a melodic backdrop to all the laughter and conversation. No one casts so much as a mistrustful look in his direction.

The thick, honey taste of mead isn’t Geralt’s usual preference, but it isn’t bad per se, and it’s free anyway, much to his continued confusion. He’s never been such a proactively welcome fixture at something like this before, and the first few times someone foists a tankard on him, Geralt carefully inspects the contents before venturing as far as drinking it. It’s not poisoned or otherwise off the first time, or the second, or any of them afterwards. 

Jaskier notices eventually, with a hand curled around Geralt’s (uncomfortably devoid of armor) shoulder and a laugh like the witcher’s suspicion is… endearing or something. It’s not mocking, not from Jaskier, but the bard shakes his head in badly concealed amusement. “Somehow, my dear, I think if they meant you harm, they wouldn’t decide their midsummer festival is the appropriate venue for it.” 

_My dear._ Jaskier says that sometimes. It means nothing because Jaskier is affectionate with everyone, but it hooks Geralt’s heart and pulls every time anyway. The witcher scowls to hide how wrong footed it leaves him feeling. “Most places don’t seem like the appropriate venue to harm someone until someone decides they are.” 

An odd happens to Jaskier’s face then, mirth dissolving into something inexplicably soft. His hand lingers, warm through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “They’re only trying to be kind to you. _Let them_.”

It’s one of those times where Jaskier says one thing, and Geralt can’t help feeling like he means something else entirely. Words are outside Geralt’s wheelhouse, and this is… more than that, leaving the witcher to helplessly parse what it is Jaskier is trying to communicate to him. 

Too soon and not soon enough, Jaskier withdraws his hand. There’s a ghost of it left behind, an echo of pressure Geralt doesn’t mean to commit to memory, but finds himself caught up inanyway. He breathes in and out, slow and controlled, and allows his gaze to be drawn to the bonfire. There’s nothing remarkable about it save for the fact that it isn’t Jaskier’s spectacularly blue eyes. 

When Jaskier flits off, Geralt wonders if it’s enough of an excuse to hide away. He made an appearance and that’s polite enough probably. Jaskier doesn’t remotely need his company to have a good time at a party. 

Before Geralt can make a decision, Jaskier is back at his side, sporting a broad smile and a halo of asters that stand out starkly against his dark hair. The bard knows him too well, Geralt decides, when Jaskier nudges companionably against his shoulder. “Oh good. You haven’t fled yet.” 

Jaskier holds out a scrap of parchment, physically pressing it into Geralt’s hand when he doesn’t immediately take it. The witcher looks down where his fingers curl loosely around it. “What is this?”

“Paper.” It sounds so earnest, only the cheeky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth gives away that he’s teasing. 

Refusing to let himself be goaded, Geralt only sighs. “What is it _for_?”

“To write a wish on. Then you throw it in the fire and the, the gods or whatever do the rest.” Jaskier’s holding one of his own, and though Geralt catches the occasional flash of his neat script, there’s no reading the whole of it. Jaskier catches him looking and huffs, holding the paper further away. “Don’t _read_ it. Wait, can you read through folded paper? It’s never come up before.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He glances down at the paper and with nowhere to easily discard it, tucks the scrap away. There’s hardly a beat missed before Jaskier is piping up again. “You’re supposed to write on it, Geralt.”

“I’m not doing that.” 

“It’s _tradition_ ,” Jaskier coaxes, as if that has ever once in all of ever mattered to either of them. 

Apparently, Jaskier translates the dubious look Geralt gives him as an invitation to keep pressing. “It’s just a bit of fun. What’s the harm in it?”

“No harm,” Geralt concedes evenly, his expression neutral. “No point either.”

“See? Allergic to having fun. Well, suit yourself.” With that, Jaskier makes a show of tossing his paper scrap into the bonfire. It doesn’t even reach the ground before the flames lap at the paper and curl it into ash. The whole thing is over in a moment, leaving Geralt to wonder what about it was meant to be fun. Perhaps if one buys into the supposed magic of it, there’s some manner of delight to the prospect of a hope fulfilled, but Geralt doesn’t buy it for a minute. Jaskier surely doesn’t either. For all his poetry and unnecessary drama, the man is clever and largely reasonable when it comes down to it. 

Nonetheless, Geralt is struck by the strangest urge to know what it was Jaskier wished so pointlessly for. He asks, but Jaskier, normally so prone to oversharing, only gifts him with a reproachful frown. The bard’s cheeks flush in what seems like embarrassment. “You don’t _tell_ people.”

“Surely you don’t believe all this.” Geralt gestures at the bonfire where a young girl in a well worn dress and long, slightly unkempt hair is throwing something in. It’s not really a question, except perhaps it is. Maybe he’s had Jaskier all wrong. 

“Nah, but it’s a nice thought anyway.” Jaskier shrugs, turning to watch the fire. “I don’t know. I’d rather be right and have done something silly than be wrong and miss the opportunity.” 

Admittedly, there is some validity to choosing that sort of limbo. Geralt’s thumb and forefinger rub over the blank paper he’s secreted away. He can’t write anything on it without confessing to wanting something. If that’s a fall he’s destined for, Geralt isn’t about to concede to it here. 

***

The afternoon wears on into evening, where the first sign of twilight is creeping up at the horizon. Mead still flows like water, but cordial conversation has largely given way to something far more raucous. Whatever decorum earlier events had, it’s devolved into a party that Geralt really isn’t made for. Not that there’s any kind of party Geralt has much interest in. The witcher is more than happy to leave the villagers to it, thank you very much. 

It’s… exactly the kind of party Jaskier is made for though, judging by the way he slides off the end of the cart where they’ve been sitting. He doesn’t actually say anything, which is an incredible feat in all honesty, but the way he offers Geralt his hand speaks plenty loudly. 

“I don’t dance,” Geralt growls when it becomes very clear from Jaskier’s staring, and impatiently curling fingers, that the bard isn’t going to take silence for an answer. 

“Hm. Of course not. I guess you wouldn’t,” Jaskier agrees like that’s the end of it. That’s _never_ the end of it. Even as Jaskier pauses to watch the villagers, or perhaps the smoke drifting from the fire, Geralt waits for the inevitable addendum. 

“But allow me to raise this one point for your consideration.” There it is, accompanied by Jaskier’s expression scrunching in a way that Geralt is exasperated to realize he finds rather endearing. “Have you ever _tried_?” 

“No.” Geralt says flatly, and very pointedly does not look at Jaskier’s face any longer because he knows what he’ll find. 

Not that Jaskier is likely to let him off so easily. Sure enough, it’s only a moment before the bard side steps to slide obnoxiously back in front of Geralt, defiantly taking the witcher’s hand. Geralt’s stomach flips, even though he knows it doesn’t mean a thing. Jaskier is just tactile. If Geralt’s breath threatens to catch every time Jaskier reaches out, well, that’s probably just the… mead. That Geralt is largely sober is completely immaterial to the excuse. 

“Come on. It’s a _party,_ ” Jaskier coaxes, fingers curled loosely around Geralt’s. The bard’s other hand joins the first, like he thinks sandwiching Geralt’s between the both of them will be somehow more convincing. 

Geralt could pull away from the warmth of Jaskier’s palms. He ought to, really. Nothing good can come from the longing that blots out everything else in its wake. 

He doesn’t, and maybe in some cruel way, he basks in the way it torments him. To ache like this is to feel something, after all. The witcher does incline his head towards the bonfire though. “ _That_ is a party. Full of plenty of people who would love to dance with you, I’m sure.”

He’s not sure why pointing it out feels so sour on his tongue. That’s a lie. He knows exactly why it feels this way, no matter that it shouldn’t. He half expects Jaskier to take the hint, to go find a more enthusiastic partner, but the bard just grins at Geralt, not drunk, but maybe ever so slightly tipsy judging by the color high in his cheeks. More than that, he’s so close it’s very hard not to get lost in the single-minded focus of Jaskier’s eyes on his. They’re bright, and even in the waning light, so, so blue. The crown of asters he’s been sporting all day is doing its damnedest to make an escape, tilted at an angle and sliding down over one brow so that Jaskier can’t help squinting a little on that side. 

“Maybe, but I-” He pauses to huff in annoyance, inefficiently trying to fix the crown by tilting his head in a different direction. That he could let go of Geralt doesn’t seem to even occur to him. It goes on until Geralt rolls his eyes and uses his free hand to right the crown properly, and then Jaskier continues like he hadn’t stopped halfway through a thought. “-didn’t ask them.” 

“No one’s stopping you,” Geralt murmurs, even though he doesn’t want Jaskier to go. Not really. It’s not a thought he’s ready to look at too closely. 

Jaskier stares out at the villagers. It seems like he might, but in the end, Jaskier only rocks on his heels briefly and shakes his head and releases Geralt’s hand. “Nah. I’m good.” 

For someone who talks so often and shares so much, Jaskier still manages to be a mystery in some ways. Every time Geralt thinks he’s figured his companion out, Jaskier goes and does something that doesn’t fit the narrative at all. Like just now, somehow managing to look perfectly content returning to perch beside Geralt at the edge of the cart instead of joining in the revelry. 

Curiously, Geralt looks over, struck by the way the bonfire light flickers across his features. His crown has slipped again, and Geralt reaches to fix it before he really stops to think about it. “Aren’t these meant to be different kinds of flowers or something?”

“Are you seriously critiquing my flower crown choices? Honestly.” Jaskier sways a little when he laughs, bumping against Geralt. “If you must know, the different kinds of flowers thing is for people _looking_ for something. You stick it under your pillow and hope the love of your life will come to you in a dream.” 

“Sounds like exactly your brand of nonsense,” Geralt finds himself teasing. “You’re not curious?” 

“I already know.” Before Geralt realizes what Jaskier’s said, the bard’s eyes go wide, a bright flush creeping across his cheeks. It makes no sense at all because Jaskier has been at his side more often than not and given how talkative the bard is, Geralt is certain he’d know if there was someone Jaskier was serious about. Hell, most of the time he knows when there’s someone Jaskier is interested in for more than five minutes, whether he wants to or not. 

“Hmm?” It’s the closest Geralt can bring himself to asking for so, so many reasons. Not that it seems to matter anyway because Jaskier is looking anywhere but at him. 

“Obviously, it’s my music. Maybe the open road.” Jaskier waves expansively at what is probably meant to illustrate their travels, but is mostly just him gesturing towards the villagers. Some nameless tension simmers between them when Jaskier finally looks at him again, a crooked little smile tilting on his lips. “I have all I need.”

It’s definitely one of the weirder answers Jaskier has given him. It doesn’t feel like a lie exactly, but it’s not the truth either. The relative honesty is probably immaterial though, because Geralt isn’t sure what he’d do with either. 

For a little while, it’s quiet, the sort of calm, companionable moment Geralt finds he misses more every time Jaskier leaves. They watch the celebration play out, and Geralt is certain he doesn’t imagine the way Jaskier leans into him, just a little. The closeness is too comfortable to bear, so Geralt sits up a little straighter. “I’m surprised you’re not up there playing.” 

“Maybe in a while. Sometimes it’s just nice to listen.” 

“And judge,” Geralt teases, pursing his lips against the urge to smile. 

“Who said anything about judging this very fine performance?” For the space of a heartbeat or two, Jaskier manages to look very serious before his expression scrunches up. “Maybe a little.” 

Geralt means to say something else, but Jaskier’s gaze drifts away from him out to the crowd. The villagers are dancing. In the midst of them, a girl is standing, one Geralt thinks he remembers from the bonfire. She’s far from the other children, and Geralt is pretty sure Jaskier has never let anyone be alone in his entire life, so it’s not surprising that the bard is suddenly back on his feet. “Maybe just one dance.” 

Jaskier is nothing short of fascinating to watch, here in his element. He manages to make his way over without ever really looking like that’s his intent. Dramatic as he can be, he gives no indication that he’s heading her way out of any sense of pity. He mingles long enough, a pleasant smile flitting across his lips, that even Geralt might be fooled if he hadn’t watched the whole thing unfold. Looking very much like he’s the one who has been caught out there all alone, he offers his hand to the girl. It’s not even a lie, really, for someone who so consistently sees the beauty in everything to wish to be there exactly as much as he appears to. 

The music picks up in tempo, and there’s so much movement that Geralt can’t see the two of them all the time, but he catches a glimpse of Jaskier grinning like he’s never known anything else in his life but unfettered joy. Even if it squeezes in a sharp vice grip around his lungs, Geralt still smiles ever so slightly. If it aches, it’s only because he sees some echo of the two of them in this. 

Jaskier has always had a knack for making people feel as if they matter. Even if they don’t think their own value is important. Even if they think that the only company they need is their own until Jaskier forces them to realize differently. Sometimes, it comes in the shape of a friendly face across the campfire. Sometimes, it seems, it comes in the shape of a little girl spun round until her sorrowful expression has melted away into helpless laughter. 

It’s not really a surprise that when Jaskier steps away, it’s only to fetch his lute. He blends right in like the other musicians are old friends, like he belongs here. There’s some regret in that which Geralt cannot name, but he procures himself another drink and watches from the edge of the crowd. 

Jaskier could have a life like this if he wanted. A home. Something stable. The knowledge that there will always be a roof over his head. He takes to it like breathing, and it’s clear he likes it, so Geralt cannot fathom why he keeps choosing something else entirely. 

“Geralt?” A voice startles him from his thoughts, all the more so for the familiar way the girl tugs at his sleeve to get his attention. As if witchers are nothing to be frightened of. If anything, the child’s expression is startling in its adoration. “Sis says that’s your name. Is it your name? I’m Mari.”

“Hmm?” Geralt doesn’t entirely trust himself to speak. 

“Sis says you saved us.” Mari lets go of his sleeve, instead anxiously clutching at her skirt. A ring of flowers dangles from her other hand, and it’s clear she’s trying very hard not to crush it. She’s not scared though, as far as Geralt can tell. “Thank you.” 

“It’s my job. You don’t need to thank me,” Geralt protests, even though the unexpected gratitude warms its way through him. He’s still a bit stuck on having been called by name. It’s only rarely that anyone cares to know.

“That’s bad manners! You always say thank you when people are kind.” She’s so comically scandalized that Geralt has to fight with a smile threatening to break loose. 

“Well, in _that_ case.” It’s easier, oftentimes, to talk to children. They’re usually more curious than fearful, unencumbered by the mistrust that so often colors conversations with adults. “You’re welcome.” 

Mari is still clutching at her skirt, but she holds out the flowers, practically shoving them into Geralt’s hand. “This is for you. I made it. Sis helped.” 

“Oh, I don’t--” It’s as far as he gets before it becomes very clear that her height is the only thing keeping her from plopping the crown on his head by force. 

“Everyone gets one. That means you too.” Geralt doesn’t have a great deal of patience for stubbornness most of the time. Not in grown ups anyway (Jaskier notwithstanding), but it’s much harder to hold his ground in the face of a very determined child. As if it’s the strongest part of the argument, she shakes the crown a little in his direction and adds, “It matches your eyes.”

“Alright.” He huffs out what might be a laugh. She holds the crown in both hands, clearly meaning to do this herself, and Geralt… lets her. The girl must be nine or ten, too tall for crouching down to put them at eye level, so the witcher ducks his head instead, letting her drop the crown on top of his head. “Better?”

“Better,” she agrees, nodding for good measure.

He loses track after that. Mari takes up residence at Geralt’s side, full of questions and smiles. It’s sort of overwhelming, but Geralt can’t bring himself to turn her away. She’s only lonely, and he knows a thing or two about that. 

Generally, when parents come to retrieve the occasional child who strays near him, it’s an unpleasant thing. They glare at him like he’s some kind of danger, a corrupting influence waiting for their backs to be turned. But Mari’s sister isn’t like that at all. She apologizes for intruding and looks at him like one might a friendly neighbor before herding the child away and off to bed. 

Long, long ago he’d dreamt of being something the world needed. It’s distant, the memory only hazy. Still, he wonders if this might have been what that would be like. 

***

“That’s a good look for you,” Jaskier says when he finally returns, having relinquished the entertainment to someone else. He’s traded his lute for two mugs that smell of honey and alcohol even before he presses one of them into Geralt’s hand. 

“Courtesy of your friend.” Geralt curls his fingers around the mug, feeling oddly like he could use something to hang onto. 

“Well, I’m glad to see someone forced a little levity on you,” Jaskier teases as he stakes out a place at Geralt’s side. The smile he offers up is lopsided and sweet in a way that makes Geralt’s heart lurch in spite of his best efforts. “You should get to know you’re appreciated.”

It’s such an innocuous thing to say on the surface, but it’s a revelation all the same. They could have left, they normally would have, and when Jaskier asked to stay it had been easy to assume the bard just wanted to be a part of the festivities. People being kind, treating him like he was welcome had been an odd side effect, but only now does it occur to him that maybe that kindness was the _point_.

Jaskier is a creature of theatrics and grand gestures, so it’s easier to miss the quiet things the bard doesn’t intentionally shed light on. They’re there though, and Geralt shakes his head ever so slightly as he realizes this was never about what Jaskier wanted at all. 

Jaskier’s attention is back on the fire, but he lingers close enough that Geralt can feel the warmth where their shoulders press together. He’ll probably strike up a conversation, but he won’t ask for anything more, and Geralt knows when he flits off again to talk to someone else, that’ll be the end of it. So, maybe it’s impulse that makes him pluck the mug from Jaskier’s hand, setting it down along with his own. 

“I was drinking that, you-” Jaskier starts, but Geralt’s hand curling around his is enough to silence the bard very briefly. Geralt leads Jaskier away with some measure of urgency because it’s already starting to feel like a stupid, ridiculous idea, and he knows if he stops, he’ll relent entirely. So he goes, and Jaskier follows. “Okay, that’s… new. Did you see something? What’s the matter?”

Despite the question, Jaskier lets Geralt drag him around the side of a building. They can still see the flicker of firelight from here, can still hear the music, but they won’t be immediately obvious to passers by. Before he can back out of this entirely absurd thing he’s done, Geralt makes himself reply. “You wanted to dance.”

“There’s a very euphemistic joke I’m going to refrain from making given the way you… everything.” Jaskier’s expression twitches with what Geralt has long come to recognize as him fighting very hard against the impulse to give a suggestive look alongside the joke he doesn’t make. “I take it you’re not keen on an audience.”

“Hmm.” 

“Right. Very helpful.” Jaskier squeezes his hand and withdraws and Geralt realizes he has no idea at all where to start. This was supposed to be something nice for Jaskier, but it’s the bard who speaks up as the music changes in the background. “Do you know this one?”

“No,” Geralt replies with surprising ease. It’s not lost on him that Jaskier goes for the specific rather than making Geralt admit that in all this time, he’s never had occasion to learn to dance at all really. It’s not something that embarrasses Geralt, but it would embarrass Jaskier in his shoes, and so the kindness the bard approaches this with is sweet if utterly unnecessary. 

“It’s like this.” 

Jaskier demonstrates the steps with a grace Geralt rarely sees from him. They’re simple enough to follow along. Geralt doesn’t know the song, but it’s pleasant and lilting, easy to get a little bit lost in, the world narrowing to the way Jaskier’s hands find his, drawing them together before easing away again. 

Geralt doesn’t really see the appeal in dancing in and of itself. The firelight catches Jaskier’s eyes, lighting them up with every turn, and he grins like this is the best time he’s ever had, and Geralt swallows thickly as he realizes he can very much see the appeal in _that_. The way they draw together tests his resolve, satisfying nothing, and the way they pull away leaves him feeling bereft at the loss of something that’s not his in the first place. 

They’re close when the song ends, scant inches between them, and without the dance holding his attention, Geralt can’t help but notice what he’s been missing. He can make out a quickened heartbeat that he’d blame on the dance except Jaskier is breathing far too evenly for that to be it. Jaskier’s eyes are level with his, pupils blown even though he’s turned into the light. The bard’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, the motion drawing Geralt’s attention. 

“You... really didn’t have to.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed in a way he never is, doing nothing to break whatever spell keeps them standing so near each other. 

“I didn’t,” Geralt agrees amiably, the ‘I wanted to’ left unspoken between them. He lifts a hand to fix Jaskier’s crown that is once again trying its damnedest to escape. It’s a gesture that leaves his fingertips at Jaskier’s temple and Geralt’s heart lurches at the way the bard leans into it, just a touch too intimately to be merely friendly. 

“It was nice.” Jaskier’s eyes slide shut, lashes fanning out against his pale skin, and maybe that’s what does it. Because Geralt lingers, but Jaskier doesn’t pull away. Fingertips against Jaskier’s temple become a palm cradling his cheek, and he only leans in, lips parting faintly in invitation. 

Geralt is helpless but to accept, humming in agreement as he closes the distance between them. In a far gentler gesture than anything he’s ever pictured, Jaskier meets him, as if both are afraid of scaring the other off. Maybe they are, because the moment is fragile, a tipping point they cannot hope to right themselves from. 

But neither one bolts. Jaskier’s hands settle at Geralt’s hips as they find their footing, and the tension Geralt had been holding onto finally eases. Geralt stops bracing himself for whatever ruin he’d expected, and when Jaskier withdraws the tiniest bit to breathe, the witcher only barely stifles a disappointed sound. 

They could stop here, Geralt thinks, give themselves room to step back from the edge they’re a breath away from tumbling over. Whatever reason Geralt can possibly think of in favor of it is waylaid by Jaskier’s thumbs restlessly skimming his flanks. It’s blatantly affectionate, luring the Witcher’s heart out from where he keeps it hidden, and in that moment Geralt knows he’s done for. He cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and draws the bard back in.

There’s nothing rushed or urgent, only a strange, liminal sort of peace, like they were always made to end up here. Geralt follows as Jaskier blindly backs further into the shadows until he bumps into the side of the building, a wall to brace against, a barrier past which there is no retreat. Not that either of them mean to. Jaskier molds his body shamelessly against Geralt’s, yielding to every kiss, every touch, until the witcher is hopelessly caught up in him. 

Eventually Geralt strays from Jaskier’s lips to mouth his way down the side of the bard’s neck, to drink in the scent of smoke from the bonfire caught up in Jaskier’s hair. He bites down, just once, just a little, and Jaskier jerks in his embrace, stuttering out a wounded sort of sound. In that moment, sailing by on instinct alone, Geralt wants nothing more than to chase after it and wring whatever else he can from Jaskier. He might have, if not for the shuffle of footsteps and the buzz of drunken conversation just a little too close for comfort. 

In what is perhaps the single greatest act of self control Geralt has ever performed in his very long life, he lifts his head to whisper against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. “Probably not the best place for this.” 

Jaskier huffs out a laugh that eases the tension beginning to coil in Geralt’s chest. There’d been some fear that the moment they stopped, Jaskier would realize he didn’t want this at all. Maybe that, in the silence, Geralt would have to confront what this is, underneath the ardor driving them. When Jaskier lets Geralt go, it’s only in favor of taking the witcher’s hand in his. He tilts his head, just enough that Geralt can spot the edge of a wicked smile. “Lucky we kept the room for an extra night, then.” 

It’s all the warning Geralt gets before he’s being tugged back towards the inn. 

***

Shadows are their only companions when they stumble their way into the inn. With the villagers still out celebrating, the main room is dark, the tables entirely empty. There’s not a soul around to see when the distance gets to be too much, when they cave into the urge to be impossibly closer.

Geralt steers Jaskier through the door and kicks it shut behind them. Somehow, they manage a few shuffled steps, and nearly tumble onto the bed in a heap. Dragging his hands up through Jaskier’s hair, Geralt finds his fingers catching on flower stems. “It’s not bad luck or something to take this off, is it?” 

“No.” Jaskier laughs, light and unfettered, as Geralt pulls the crown free and drops it on the nightstand. It might be the best sound he’s ever heard, Geralt thinks. All the more for being the source of it. “You don’t believe that stuff anyway.”

“I don’t know. Someone said something about it being better to be safe than sorry.” Geralt’s teasing takes on a softer cast than it might normally, for reasons he’s not sure he knows how to quantify. 

“That is not exactly what I said.” Jaskier kisses Geralt before he can argue, hands lifting from the home they’d made at the witcher’s flanks in favor of plucking the crown from his head. Blindly, Jaskier drops it on top of his own, murmuring as he draws back just enough to breathe. “But you know? I’ll take it.” 

Before Geralt can reply, Jaskier’s palms press against his chest and the bard playfully pushes him onto the bed. Two can play that game though, so Geralt is barely settled before he captures Jaskier’s wrist. With a wolfish grin, he yanks, just sharply enough that Jaskier stumbles into his arms. 

The focus that creeps in is familiar, unexpectedly so. It’s the way his senses zero in on things before a battle, a calm that washes over him despite the storm. But there is no monster here, only Jaskier, who smells mostly like bonfire smoke, and who still tastes faintly of mead. There are no sharp teeth or rending claws, only Jaskier’s knees planted on either side of Geralt’s hips, fingers buried pleasantly in his hair. There is no crushing weight of something dangerous atop him. There is only the way Jaskier fits in his arms, arching under Geralt’s fingers as they drag down the bard’s spine, a low moan reverberating against the witcher’s lips. 

There’s a moment, two perhaps, where drowning in the immediacy of it all is enough. They tug at each other’s clothes with eager, clumsy fingers until only the fact that Jaskier is sitting in Geralt’s lap keeps them wearing anything at all. Geralt has done nothing to earn this, but here they both are, and the frantic beating of Jaskier’s heart suggests nothing but honest desire. It’s an extension of the rest of the day, a culmination of unnecessary kindnesses in the shape of Jaskier pushing Geralt back against the pillows, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to take you apart?” 

The admission all but runs him through, and Geralt’s fingers clutch at Jaskier’s hips like this might all slip away if he doesn’t hang on. He means to say something, not that he has any idea what. Words, whatever they might be, are as elusive as ever. By the time they begin to take shape, any shape at all, Jaskier’s tongue is licking up the column of his throat, leaving them to fizzle. Between that and the way Jaskier chooses just then to roll his hips forward, the only sound that wrenches its way free is a low moan. 

Jaskier is more solidly built than he appears when swathed in all his brightly colored finery, and though his back and shoulders are delightfully soft to the touch under Geralt’s palms, there’s little give beneath them. There are reasons, maybe even good ones, that this discovery is a new one, but he can’t think of a single one of them just now. None of the reservations driving Geralt to keep his distance do a damned thing to shift the path they’re careening down. The only thing that matters just now is that he is here and Jaskier is here, and if most of him isn’t particularly yielding, the bard’s lips certainly are. 

It’s blessedly simple to hold Jaskier right here, to lick ravenously into his mouth. It’s instinctive practically to chase after the needy, wordless sounds Jaskier makes when Geralt’s nails drag down the length of his back, until the witcher’s fingers tug playfully at the lacing holding up the bard's trousers. Jaskier slides ever so briefly to a halt, only long enough to lean his weight on one forearm, smoothing his free hand down Geralt’s flank. His expression is delightfully wicked and full of promise, “There are entirely too many clothes in this scenario.”

“There’s a solution to that.” The anticipatory moan that earns him sparks down Geralt’s spine and spurs him to action. In one smooth motion, he throws his weight into rolling them over, pinning Jaskier beneath him. Before Jaskier can utter a word of protest, Geralt sinks down towards the foot of the bed, peeling away the last of Jaskier’s clothes as he goes. 

It’s a little bit… very much actually, like unwrapping a present. He’s seen Jaskier naked before, but there’s a wide chasm of difference between the reality of sharing close quarters and Jaskier laid bare entirely for his benefit. Geralt allows himself the luxury of taking everything in, from the flush that’s spread down his neck to the dark hair scattered across his chest and down his belly, where his cock curves against it, leaving no secret about how he feels about all this.

“When I said too many clothes in this scenario, I didn’t mean for you to get out of said scenario,” Jaskier teases when Geralt has probably stared a little longer than he meant to. Banter is familiar territory, and Geralt’s first instinct is to tease right back, but he bites down on it in favor of ridding himself of his trousers and smallclothes. 

He all but pounces, and Jaskier winds around him like he belongs there, a brief and delightful interlude where Geralt momentarily forgets what he was going for and all he feels is warm. But he breaths Jaskier in, and nips at the delicate skin beneath the bard’s ear. Jaskier sucks in a breath and scrabbles at Geralt’s back like he’s one strong breeze away from coming, and all at once, Geralt forgets any semblance of strategy or any intent to take his time he might have had. 

Jaskier is lean, but far less slender than he looks. He’s solid under Geralt’s straying hands, and when he wraps his legs around the witcher’s hips, Geralt can feel the strength in them. Wickedly, Geralt skims Jaskier’s belly with his fingers until they can wrap around Jaskier’s cock instead, to a litany of only marginally coherent pleas. 

It would be tempting to poke fun if getting his hands on Jaskier didn’t make Geralt so badly want to get his mouth on him instead. It’s an urgent sort of need, enough that everything runs together, from Jaskier’s neck warm against Geralt’s lips to Jaskier’s fingers curling in the bedding at the edge of Geralt’s vision as the witcher stakes out a path in open mouthed kisses, to his cock down Geralt’s throat. He won’t say he’s thought about it, but it’s everything he might have allowed himself to hope it would be. Jaskier whines as he bobs his head, and as badly as Geralt aches, he thinks he could be satisfied with just the way Jaskier is threatening to shake apart under him. 

He must be getting this right if Jaskier’s erratic tugging at his hair is anything to go by. Maybe also judging by the punched out whimpers or the way Jaskier digs his heels into the bedding at the edge of Geralt’s vision. Geralt presses his hands down against Jaskier’s hips to keep him still, delighting in Jaskier’s shuddering response. 

“Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier whines. At first, Geralt thinks it’s just an exclamation, but Jaskier pants out words between labored breaths, sounding like every one is costing him dearly. “This is going to be over-- _over_ very quickly if you don’t stop.”

Reluctantly, Geralt releases Jaskier’s cock in favor of mouthing along the crease of his thigh. “Is that a problem?” 

At first, Jaskier doesn’t answer, aside from the way he arches up against Geralt’s tongue as it drags across the divot of his hip. His fingers clench and unclench in Geralt’s hair before smoothing it down in a strangely affectionate gesture. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“Like… what?” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s skin, cautiously as he can. 

“I just wanted to be _good_ to you,” Jaskier explains, even though it doesn’t explain anything at all. 

“Good to me,” Geralt echoes, feeling the words out, but they’re no less foreign on his lips than they were on Jaskier’s. 

“Yes?” Jaskier’s thumb strays to brush tenderly along Geralt’s temple in a way that makes his breath hitch before he can stop it. “I had plans.”

 _They’re only trying to be kind to you. Let them._ The admonition rattles around in Geralt’s head and then settles like the first fallen leaf of autumn. Most people rarely go out of their way to be even polite to him, but Jaskier has never once been ‘most people’. He’s tangled his life up with Geralt’s, even when it has to be inconvenient for him, even when things are downright terrible. 

A myriad of little things Geralt has ignored all this time begin to make sense. It’s not so much a startling revelation as it is a fog clearing or a distant view sharpening into focus. Geralt traces a path back up the length of Jaskier’s body, laving, lingering, utterly enjoying the way Jaskier shudders under his mouth. It’s a lazy trek, Geralt’s tongue skating over Jaskier’s ribs until the bard huffs out a startled laugh and squirms away. Geralt’s teeth dragging over one of Jaskier’s nipples just for the keening sound he desperately tries to muffle into his forearm. 

“Plans, hmm?” Geralt murmurs into the hollow of Jaskier’s throat when he reaches it. By the time they’re nose to nose, there’s a bright flush across Jaskier’s cheeks, and he’s panting like he’s run for miles. Neither of these things stop him from dragging Geralt into a kiss that’s devolved into more enthusiasm than skill, all the want and rough edges Geralt has never really gotten to see. Geralt’s a little drunk on this, on _them_ , and he demands between kisses, “So show me.”

Geralt isn’t terribly surprised when he ends up sprawled back against the mattress again. He knows what comes after, he thinks, when Jaskier nudges his thighs apart to settle between them. None of it quite prepares him for the sensation as Jaskier’s tongue licks a stripe from the base of Geralt’s cock to the tip of it. Geralt sucks in a sharp breath he can’t quite catch, because it’s the only preamble Jaskier bothers with before engulfing him entirely. 

When Geralt lifts his head to look down at Jaskier, he thinks he might come undone right then and there. Jaskier can’t grin at Geralt with his lips stretched over the witcher’s cock, but it’s there in his eyes, a playful sense of victory. Geralt can’t even argue with it, not when he can’t even quiet the desperate sounds that keep escaping him. 

Geralt finds himself winding tighter and tighter as Jaskier works him over, and the gentle scrape of the bard’s nails up the inside of his thigh makes him shudder. Lost as he is, Geralt only belatedly understands the intent. He doesn’t say a word about it, and when he adjusts the way he’s lying, he’s unspeakably grateful that Jaskier seems to recognize it for the invitation it is. 

Briefly, everything blurs together a little, and Geralt has no idea how either of them survive it. Jaskier’s gone and then he’s back, his mouth all heat and pressure on Geralt’s cock, slick fingers working him open with a sort of reverence he doesn’t understand. As eager as he must be, Jaskier takes his time. 

Jaskier touches Geralt like he knows him already, setting a pace that has Geralt rocking back against one finger and then two. He twists his fingers and crooks them just so, until Geralt feels he might be hanging on by only a thread. It could be enough, on another night, to let Jaskier tip him over the edge this way. Next time, maybe, and the promise of it rattles right down to his bones. 

But now he wants Jaskier back in arm’s reach far too badly to manage a thing like that. Geralt reaches out, practically growling, “Come here already.”

“Impatient,” Jaskier grumbles, but his tone is unspeakably fond. Complaining or otherwise, he eases his fingers free and crawls back up the length of Geralt’s body until they’re nose to nose. “Better?”

“Almost.” Geralt thinks he might have to coax Jaskier into getting a move on, but as it turns out, the proximity was as much a distraction as anything. They’re barely situated when Jaskier reaches down to guide his cock into place. It nudges promisingly against his hole. All he’d have to do is press back a little to impale himself on it. 

“Okay?”

It’s the most absurd question Geralt has ever heard, but Jaskier looks so earnest, Geralt indulges it anyway. He does shift then, enjoying Jaskier’s helpless stutter at the heat suddenly all around him. “More than.”

“Okay. Fuck, okay.” Jaskier wets his lips with his tongue, and when he moves at first, it’s experimental, slow and a little disjointed. It’s delightful anyway, a faint, pleasant burn punctuated every time Jaskier withdraws only to sink back in. 

Geralt expects Jaskier to sit up or at least pull back, to trade proximity for leverage. But there he stays, nose pressed into the crook of Geralt’s shoulder, murmuring something unintelligible. Whatever it is, Jaskier punctuates it with lazy, languid kisses. 

“Hmm?” It comes out in a breathless huff as Geralt’s fingers find purchase in Jaskier’s hair, cradling the back of the bard’s skull. Whatever he means to do with his other hand, Jaskier finds it first. The bard skims Geralt’s palm until their fingers thread together in the bedding beside his head. 

“I said-” Jaskier rocks his hips, the rhythm slow and easy, but Geralt feels like he’s being pulled apart anyway. With his head turned just so, Jaskier’s breath washes warmly along the shell of Geralt’s ear, shuddering right down his spine. “-to let me be good to you.” 

It’s too, too much. There’s an intimacy to the way they’re lying that has nothing to do with Jaskier pressing inside him again and again. They’re so close it’s unnerving, their bodies mostly flush, Jaskier’s hand clasped in his. Pleasure is one thing, but this is a version of events he’s never allowed himself to entertain the notion of. Witchers are not made to be doted on, and yet Jaskier is mapping a path back to Geralt’s lips, whispering endearments into his skin. There’s a liquidity to the way Jaskier moves, like this is the intended destination rather than a brief stop on the way to something more satisfying. 

Witchers are not made to be loved. Geralt circles back to the notion, a muted protest from the sidelines, but he thinks of Jaskier’s _nah, I’m good_ , and _I have all I need_ and maybe what he’s made for doesn’t matter in the end. Before he can dwell too much on it, Jaskier shifts just enough that the angle has him seeing stars, an earthquake under his skin. Every thrust drags his cock along Jaskier’s sweat slick belly, until he can’t decide whether to press back and meet Jaskier’s movements or to arch closer in search of friction.

“ _Geralt._ ” Jaskier has said his name more times than the witcher can possibly count, but never like it’s a prayer. In the face of the ghost it leaves behind, Geralt can only hold onto him that much more tightly. Between kisses that are far too tender, and Jaskier’s fingers still tangled between his, Geralt can feel himself coming unraveled, a snagged thread that pulls and pulls and pulls. 

“Please--” he murmurs, an aimless supplication as a spring coils at the base of his spine. Jaskier huffs out a breathless sound that might be anything, but the bard moves just a fraction faster, the rhythm taking a sharper turn, until the building sensation reaches an overwhelming crescendo. Later, Geralt will be grateful for the festival ensuring no one could possibly hear the keening sound he makes as his body draws taut and he comes between them. 

“Fuck, fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier babbles, and distantly Geralt takes some pleasure in having reduced the bard to such incoherence. He’s not that far behind in the end, movements stuttering helplessly until he’s moaning into the crux of Geralt’s neck and shoulder. 

Geralt can’t really bring himself to mind the way Jaskier slumps against him in the aftermath. He can only welcome the haphazard kiss Jaskier presses to his collarbone, not intentionally placed as much as it’s what’s within reach. Idly, he memorizes the peach fuzz feeling of the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Like this, he can feel Jaskier swallow before he manages a sleepy mumble. “That was...”

“Good,” Geralt finishes when Jaskier flounders. It’s the right answer, he decides, when he feels Jaskier’s lips curl upwards against his chest. 

They should clean up, probably, but Jaskier shifts just enough to lie next to Geralt instead of entirely on top of him. He curls into the witcher’s side, claiming his chest as a pillow like it’s the safest place in the world. Geralt means to get out of bed, but all he actually does is kiss the top of Jaskier’s head, listening to the bard’s breathing even out as he drifts towards slumber. 

He’s nearly fallen asleep himself when he hears the innkeeper return. She climbs the stairs, and the floor creaks until she’s hovering outside the door so long that Geralt is sure he’s going to have to come up with an excuse not to open the door. Except she never knocks. There’s a quiet clink as she sets something on the floor beside the door and then her footsteps fade taking Geralt’s consciousness along with it. 

***

When Geralt wakes, it’s still dark out. He’s half sprawled across Jaskier, his cheek pressed to the bard’s chest, and Geralt nearly drifts back to sleep to the gentle cadence of a human heartbeat. There are fingers lazily tangled in his hair, and if he cracks an eye open, he can see a couple of flower crowns tossed on the nightstand. 

It’s still... not a life witchers are meant for. But then the Path isn’t a life bards are meant for, either. They’re both here anyway, and as Jaskier curls closer in sleep, nuzzling at his hair, Geralt lets himself entertain the notion that this could work. 

Without an immediate distraction, the room is too stuffy to ignore, so very carefully, Geralt extricates himself from Jaskier’s embrace to open the window. As dark as it is, and as sleepy as he is, it’s really only dumb luck that he looks down at the table under the window before the moon disappears behind the clouds again. 

_~~I wish for him to know I love him~~_

~~_I wish to be brave enough to tell him_ ~~

~~_I wish for him to know he’s so much more than he thinks he is_ ~~

~~_I wish he could feel as wanted as he is_ ~~

It’s variations on a theme down the piece of parchment. Jaskier’s elegant script is crossed out again and again until Geralt reaches a soft edge where a strip is torn away. There’s no telling exactly what was on it, but Geralt thinks he probably has an idea. 

Unbidden, Geralt’s thoughts return to the little scrap of paper he’d squirreled away before. He doesn’t believe any of it, of course, but he still fishes it out of his discarded clothes and borrows the quill Jaskier left out to scrawl something on it. 

Jaskier doesn’t stir as Geralt slips his clothes back on, which is just as well. It’s not as if he means to be gone for long, and never in a million years would he want to own up to what he’s doing. Clinging to luck while it’s in his favor, Geralt quietly opens the door and slips out into the hallway. 

It’s only that his eyesight is so keen that keeps him from tripping over the little tray the innkeeper left. It holds an assortment of what look to be pastries and a note in the middle of it all with unexpected gratitude, scrawled out where Geralt can’t possibly misread it as anything else. As tempting as it is to write off as a side effect of the festival, Geralt knows better. At least this once, Jaskier had the right of things. 

Curiosity sated, Geralt decides he can just as easily come back to that later. He hurries on, down the stairs and out the door. Every step is deafening now that the village square is empty, his boots scuffing in the dirt as he makes his way to the last remnants of the bonfire. 

It’s not what it was. The flames don’t climb up and reach for the heavens any longer. They don’t bathe the world in firelight. All that’s left are embers, still glowing warmly in the darkness. There’s nothing grand about it, but Geralt doesn’t need grand. Functional is more than sufficient. 

Because he doesn’t believe this. It’s foolish, no more than human superstition. He’ll wake up tomorrow and the day will spool out before them, and if anything changes, it’ll be because they made it that way. Despite all of that, Geralt fishes out the scrap of paper and tosses it on what’s left of the fire. 

The scrap hits the ground and the embers around it briefly flare to life. Just responding to kindling, Geralt reminds himself. The slip of parchment unfurls in the heat, already crumbling to ash at the edges. In the breath between tossing the paper in and watching the embers consume it entirely, his wish stares up at him. 

_I wish to be able to keep this one thing._

Geralt of Rivia does not believe in silly, human superstitions. He doesn’t. But he stands in the echoes of a day he was made part of. His body aches very faintly at all the evidence of Jaskier’s devotion inflicted upon him. He thinks of the tray of pastries no one _had_ to leave, least of all for him. 

There’s no truth to this particular tradition, but Geralt has a suspicion what Jaskier wished for. Against his better judgment, he might concede to himself, that he’s never felt so wanted as he does just now. And if one wish could come to fruition…

A small smile flits across Geralt’s lips as he heads back to Jaskier. Just for tonight, he’ll let himself hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


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